


Flash à la Française

by aurilly



Category: 19th Century CE France RPF, The Flashman Papers - George MacDonald Fraser
Genre: Gen, Warnings for Flashman being Flashman, aka horrifically offensive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flashman takes Elspeth on holiday to Paris. A tussle with a well-known group of artists and writers ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flash à la Française

**Author's Note:**

  * For [machiavellijr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/machiavellijr/gifts).



For all the journeys I’ve taken, across oceans on flea-ridden ships that shouldn’t have passed muster, in sleighs across the snow-ridden steppe, none have been as painful as the trip I took to Paris in 1853.

Elspeth, you see, was with me, along with Lady Glencora Palliser, one of the grand dames of London society she was currently toadying. Between the two of them, they made what should have been your standard dull, but blessedly short channel crossing feel like a storm-beleaguered sea voyage round the world. Hatboxes everywhere, complaints about the carriages, incessant observations on the state of other women’s petticoats and haphazard guesses as to the names of sweet flowers along the road. I don’t think I’d spent as many uninterrupted hours outside the bedroom in the company of my own wife before, and after this lesson, I made sure to never again.

As someone I was soon to meet on this trip once said, “I love women, but not enough to take one on a trip. There are women everywhere.”

Truer words.

The only thing that kept me from chucking Elspeth and her friend out at the nearest waypoint was the mesmerizing way their bosoms bounced over every bump in the road or wave hitting the ferry. The other one wasn’t nearly as much to look at in the face, at least to my taste, but between her tits, riches and position, there weren’t many in London to hold a candle to Lady Glencora. And Elspeth’s lovely, golden-haired, vacant beauty had always been enough for two.

Elspeth had been waging a staggered but persistent campaign to get me to take her to Paris for years, and I don’t blame her. I’d spent my youth hankering to see it, too, but I’d passed through a few years before, back in ’48 on my way to Munich. I hadn’t thought much of the place (though anything associated with that frightful ordeal left a sour taste in my mind). For all the talk of Parisian whores, they don’t waggle their arses any different. And outside of the bedroom, all you’re left with in Paris is a bunch of depraved, dirty Frogs everywhere you turn, dog shit on the pavement, and streets not big enough for a carriage. All I’d remembered of my first trip was a dark, musty hell-hole where people lived on top of one another like moles. London had its unsavory and poor districts, but it had nothing on Paris for pure squalor.

But Elspeth was dead set on going, and no amount of rational arguments or well-employed distractions would dissuade her. 

I spoke French well enough. It’s the only language I’ve learned the normal way: in school. Pretty much the only useful thing I picked up at Rugby. I was able to get us from Calais to our hotel in Saint Germain with as little fuss as a carriage full of ninny wife and even ninnier friend can allow. 

By the time we’d settled up with the host and unloaded what I considered an excessive amount of baggage for only a week’s stay, the inescapable stench of butter and piss had already begun to cause queasy rumblings in my belly. But Lady Glencora had an entire itinerary planned out, and Elspeth, in her great and idiotic desire to please, was ready to follow it to the letter.

French painting was the current obsession of London’s society ladies, with different camps springing up on either side of a raging debate. I’d never stayed long enough in a room in which the stuff was being yammered about to figure out the particulars of what the issues were. All I had gleaned was that there was something between the Romantics and the Realists, whoever they were.

“Won’t you come to the galleries with us, Harry, darling?” Elspeth asked as they pored over the street map.

“I’d as soon jump in the Seine.”

“Why?” she asked, her great blue eyes shimmering over slightly, as though she actually thought it was a thing I might consider. “Why must you persist in such a philistine nature?” 

Where she had even learned a word like that, I wanted to know so I could forbid her from keeping company with the culprit again. I liked my Elspeth best daft and innocent; putting on airs and pretensions of an intellectual bent did her few favors. When she flew too high, her penchant for malapropism showed.

“I didn’t come here for the paintings, and I most certainly didn’t come to listen to tedious lectures from that tittering tit.”

“How can you say such things about Lady Glencora, who has been so kind to me? To us? Just think, she had her husband introduce you to the Finance Chancellor last month.”

“An evening spent getting my ear chewed off. Remind me to thank her later. Run along now, though. I’ll take to the streets and explore in my own way.” I kissed her in a way that usually satisfied all arguments. Or perhaps she never wanted me along at all. 

That’s the rum thing I could never quite decide about Elspeth; whether she was getting one over on me, or me on her. 

I told the ladies I would meet them later, and set off with money in my pocket and my hand on my sword hilt. There are worse things in the world than an afternoon alone in Paris when you are young, rich, and well-born. Say what you will about the Frogs (and I’ve said a lot), the food is excellent, the wine even more so, and the views along the quays worth seeing. 

Whole sections of buildings that had formerly lined the Tuileries gardens had been knocked down, and new pavement was being lain. I asked a chap who seemed to be overseeing the works what the devil was going on. My first thought was that I had inadvertently taken my wife and Lady Glencora into the middle of yet another revolution (the fact that they’d only had one four years before meant little, as there are few things a Frenchman likes more than a good revolution now and again; my theorem was that it cleared up the gout that came from such delicious gluttony). 

I was informed during my walk that something was soon to be done about the wretched labyrinthine quality of the city; the new government had just approved a plan to rejigger the city’s design. The project was on a scale unheard of, the idea being to plow through acres of already developed and inhabited land to create boulevards. After pretty regular street riots over the past couple hundred years, they’d finally cottoned on to the fact that the city’s warren of narrow rues practically invited legions of insurgent bakers and haberdashers to take to the streets and riot; the way things were, they almost couldn’t help themselves, the thinking seemed to go. This new plan was meant to put a stop to that going forward. For all that I was witnessing the works with my own eyes, I doubted at the time that it would actually come about; I’d never put much stock on the French finishing anything, but they eventually did. This Hausmann chap they’d hired to mastermind the proceedings must have had some German in him. (1)

It soon began to piss it down (Paris weather is just as bad as London weather, but for some reason no one ever talks about that), so I amused myself by going to an afternoon bit of theatre that I happened to pass by. It was an adaptation of _The Three Musketeers_ , which was still very much in vogue. It’s one of the only books I’d managed to read over the years, during the long voyage back from Munich. Never understood it; the silly brave fools would have been so much better off staying at home instead of gallivanting around the place. All for one and one for me, is my motto. 

The actress playing Milady was a saucy minx, and I caught her eye during the first act. Being a rich foreigner, I’d managed to get a seat at the front of a box that almost overlooked the stage, so whenever she had to deliver a truly impassioned speech—the kind that involved throwing her head back and vowing vengeance—she looked in my direction. For the rest of the play, she declaimed all her most passionate, romantic speeches straight at me, ignoring the poor d’Artagnan beside her. I winked at her each time.

A low whisper to the old farts behind me informed me of her name, which was Jeanne Duval. La Venus Noire, they were to call her later on, but I didn’t know that. All I saw was a beautiful, olive-complexioned spitfire with long black ringlets of hair and a commanding way of holding the stage. (2) 

After the show, I sneaked my way behind the curtain (I’ve been in and out of enough theatres, chasing after a good number of actresses and dancers, to know the general layout of such places) and surprised her in her dressing room.

“Oooh, an Englishman,” she said when I said hello.

(And that’s the poor thing about learning languages in school. French is the only one I don’t sound like a native in.)

“Perhaps you can improve my accent,” I said cheekily, bristling my prodigious moustaches at her.

She tittered at that, the floozy, and invited me to dine with some friends of hers. An early evening soiree, she told me. I had nothing better to do, and was sure the ladies wouldn’t want me around anyway, so I summoned a messenger boy who worked for the theatre to send word back to my hotel. In the note, I told Elspeth that she and Lady Glencora could go wherever they wanted, at my expense; a gallant gesture that was sure to win me a vigorous rogering when next we found ourselves alone together, instead of a scolding for abandoning her.

The lovely Jeanne, who spoke no English, but didn’t need to, led me through winding streets and through an arcade to a hidden but boisterous café in which were congregated other theatrical types. Jeanne was exceedingly popular here, and as her special friend of the day, I was given very special treatment. The men ignored me, for the most part, but her actress friends came to sit near us and giggle at my accent. Never has speaking a language less than fluently served me so well. 

I’d been there a couple of hours, and had Jeanne in my lap by that point, nuzzling her neck with my nose while she sipped red wine from a goblet, when a coterie of angry young men bustled into the room. They were an odd, poor-looking sort, four of them in total, and looked like they’d come in an awful hurry. They walked right up to our table and stared down at me and Jeanne.

“Jeanne, what are you doing here?” the slight, depressed-looking one of the group asked. 

“Charles,” Jeanne replied, holding her ground, and I thought to myself, _she’s a cold one, she is, and this one sits in the palm of her hand, poor sap_. “I thought you had left Paris.”

“Good thing I did not, since this is what goes on even while I am still here. Who is this man? What is he to you?”

This Charles was one of those weaklings who gets his friends to stand up for him. But even the friends, being Frenchmen, were not too intimidating. It took all three of his cronies—pauncy, flat-footed, artistic types—to rough me up enough to pull me to my feet. 

“Look here,” I protested, feeling rather shirty about being manhandled by such types. I was drunk by this point, which always riles my temper. I’ve done wrong in my life, but this wasn’t one of those occasions. “I didn’t know the lady was spoken for.”

“I am Gustave Courbet,” the most arrogant of them said, and from his tone, I started to wonder if I was supposed to know or care. “You have tampered with a woman beloved of my friend, and for that you must pay.”

“I’d like to see you try and make me, you coward.”

It’s always very easy for a true coward like myself to call other men cowards when you’ve got six inches on them and a sword. 

“What is your name?” Courbet asked.

I considered giving a false one, but I’d be damned if I let a bunch of French pansies bully me, so I fessed up to who I was. “Captain Harry Flashman, and I’ll have you ruffians unhand me before I call the British Consul.”

“Flashman?” he said thoughtfully. “I know this name from somewhere.”

“Probably heard of my heroics in Afghanistan back in ’40.”

From the way his moustache twitched, it was obvious he hadn’t. “Non, it must be something else.”

“Leave this place. You are no longer welcome,” one of the other men said.

“Damn your eyes,” I replied. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“He is here as my guest,” Jeanne decreed. “I will not have him thrown out just to please you.”

Courbet got a wicked gleam in his eye as a burst of inspiration dawned on him. “Now I remember why the name is familiar. Come gentlemen. Let us leave M. Flashman to his supper. We shall repay him in some other way.”

He whispered something to them that made them snigger and nod their heads in agreement. I didn’t like the look of what they were plotting, but without knowing the plan, there was little I could do. A minute later, they left, laughing knowingly to themselves and dragging weepy-looking Charles with them. Jeanne and I went on with our supper, but towards the end of the evening, even she seemed to have a change of heart and sent me on my way with little more than a kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of my arm muscles, accompanied by a sigh. I never did get into those petticoats, more’s the pity. (3)

By the time I made it back to the hotel, cranky from disappointed expectations, Elspeth was asleep. I nuzzled up next to her, savoring how reassuringly English she smelled, like rosewater and powder and peat. There wasn’t one woman—trollop or lady—in all of France who could compare to her. 

The next morning, I was too tired to get up in time for breakfast. Not even the smell and promise of croissants and coffee and omelets was enough to rouse me. When I finally got out of bed long enough to ring for the maid to bring me fortification, I saw that she’d left me a note saying she and Glencora had gone out to get their portraits painted by some artists they'd made appointments with the day before; I was left with another day to myself. 

Bored once again, I took to the streets. In the afternoon light, I thought back on the previous day’s events, and began to fear for my safety. Those Frogs had been angry, no doubt, and whatever they were planning to do to get me back was sure to be serious. I found a gaming hall instead and whiled away the day there, both to hide and also take my mind off things. Made a decent few francs, too.

By the time I met up with the ladies for supper, I was all set on a plan to coax them into leaving this god-forsaken place. I suggested Normandy or Burgundy or anywhere that was not here. Anywhere safe.

Luckily for me, the ladies had had enough of Paris, as well. Something about the clouds of poisonous dust created by the public works, and the general disappointment they had found in the art on offer. I had never been one to ask the little wife how her day had been, so it didn’t occur to me to inquire further into their activities. 

So, off to Normandy we decamped, for more breathable climes. We met up with my friend Speedicut, who happened to be bathing along the Norman coast with some other acquaintances of mine, so while the ladies went off to ooh and ahh over views, I was well amused. All in all, it was a pleasant enough trip in the end.

Only on the return journey home did I remember that Elspeth had mentioned having her portrait painted while we’d been in Paris.

“Where is it?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine how it could be anything but lovely; Elspeth was an easy assignment.

She turned red and looked away. “I decided after he made the sketches that it would not do to purchase the final product. I don’t think you would have liked how he rendered me.”

“Damn shame,” I said, and meant it, too, for I would have liked a nice portrait of her for my old age, to show any young bucks who might come by what a treat I’d had. “Must have been a poor painter indeed who couldn’t do justice to you. What was his name?”

“A Monsieur Courbet. But never mind the portrait now, Harry, dear.” Before I could explode with rage, she touched her hand to the brim of her hat and looked towards the other end of the ferry. “Glencora is calling for me. One moment, please.”

And she scampered off while my jaw was still hanging open.

* * *

It turned out that I’d run into some significant personages that night. Who would have expected weasel-faced, depressed-looking Charles to rise to the forefront of modern poetry a short few years later? And his cronies, I found out much later, coincidentally, were the philosopher Proudhon and the critic Champfleury.

As for old Gustave himself, I never did manage to find the portrait that rascal painted of my wife. There was one that I saw in a gallery many years later with a subject matter that seemed really very familiar. Elspeth was quite possibly the biggest trollop in England, but I never caught her at it, and even I couldn't suspect her of posing for such a thing... And I hadn't the courage to ask. (4)

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Flashman's prejudices cause him to erroneously attribute a German background to Hausmann. In fact, Baron Georges-Eugène Haussmann's origins were entirely French. He was born and bred in Paris (in one of the buildings that was eventually demolished by his own plan). The renovation of Paris, now currently referred to as "Hausmannization" began in 1853 and was completed in 1870. The works resulted in the boulevards that still form the backbone of the city today.
> 
> (2) Haitian-born French actress Jeanne Duval was for 20 years the on-and-off mistress and muse of Charles Baudelaire. Her beauty was captured in a celebrated 1862 portrait by Manet.
> 
> (3) It is probably just as well, for Duval died of syphilis some years later.
> 
> (4) The painting to which Flashman refers is Courbet's "The Origin of the World". (Warning! It is the ultimate in NSFW.)


End file.
